973.7L63      Henry,    Frank   E. 
GII396L 

Lincoln  speaks  Spanish 


LINCOLN  ROOM 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

MEMORIAL 

the  class  of  1901 

founded  by 
HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 
and 
HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


Hero  Tale  Series 

A.  M.  A.  SUNDAY 
FEBRUARY,  1925 


Five  Missionary  Minutes 
for     Sunday     Schools 

Lincoln  Speaks  Spanish 


Stories  from  the  work  of 

THE  AMERICAN  MISSIONARY 
ASSOCIATION 

287  Fourth  Avenue  New  York 


VOU  boys  and  girls  will  remem- 
A  ber  that  last  month  we  took 
a  trip  in  our  big  airship,  "Pilgrim", 
and  visited  a  Sunday  School  near 
Pittsburgh,  made  up  of  children 
from  other  lands.  This  Sunday 
School  was  in  the  care  of  the  Con- 
gregational Home  Missionary  So- 
ciety. We  are  going  on  another 
voyage.  This  time  we  shall  go 
away  down  to  the  great  South- 
west to  the  state  of  New  Mexico. 
We  are  going  to  visit  one  of  the 
little  mountain  schools  which  is 
under  the  care  of  The  American 
Missionary  Association,  and  get  ac- 
quainted with  the  teacher,  Senor- 
ita,  as  the  Mexican  children  call 
her,  with  baby  Serita,  and  with 
Felipe  and  his  brothers,  Miguel 
and  Palos.  Perhaps  the  best  way 
to  introduce  them  will  be  in  the 
form  of  a  story: 


-7  7^.7/^3  -^ 

Lincoln  Speaks  Spanish 

Rev.  Frank  E.  Henry 

FELIPE  came  in  from  the  fields  on  the  run. 
It  was  not  yet  supper  time  though  near  it  and 
he  was  worn  out  with  the  day's  work  on  his 
father's  tiny  farm.  Yet  he  hurried  along  as  if  it 
were  noon  and  the  dinner  bell  calling.  Though 
he  was  no  child — but  a  youth  of  nineteen — tears 
fell  upon  his  cheeks  as  he  ran.  Brushing  them 
away  with  his  sleeve,  he  approached  the  door  of 
his  little  home.  A  wail  from  within,  piercing  and 
heart-breaking,  struck  terror  to  his  soul.  He 
knew  too  well  what  to  expect.  His  little  sister 
had  been  very  ill  with  diptheria  that  morning 
when  he  went  out  to  the  field.  This  dreadful 
sound  could  only  mean  that  death  had  come  to 
call  her. 

He  stepped  through  the  low  doorway  into  the 
cabin  and  there,  white  and  still  upon  the  narrow 
mattress,  which  rested  on  the  floor,  lay  little 
Serita,  his  baby  sister.  Beside  her  crouched  the 
mother,  weeping  bitterly  and  moaning  over  and 
over,  "Es  por  Dios."     "It  is  the  will  of  God." 

Hearing  her  broken  words  Felipe  burst  out, 
"No,  mother,  no!  God  did  not  will  it  so.  If  you 
had  only  let  me  bring  the  nurse !  The  Protestants 
do  not  let  their  children  die.  I  will  go  for  them 
now  so  that  we  do  not  lose  my  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, too." 

Thereupon  the  boy,  never  stopping  to  heed  his 
mother's  protest,  rushed  from  the  house  and  raced 
along  the  single,  dusty  street  of  the  little  village. 
Two  hundred  people  were  huddled  there  in  adobe 
houses.  From  many  of  these  arose  the  same  wail- 
ing cries  of  mourning  mothers,  reinforced  by 
friends  and  relatives,  that  he  had  heard  in  his 
own  home.  Before  the  door  of  the  last  house 
upon  the  street  Felipe  stopped.  This  mud-walled 
cabin  was  much  like  the  others  but  neater  and  a 
bit  larger.  Felipe  knocked  loudly.  The  door 
opened  at  once. 


"Buenos  noches  Senorita,"  began  poor  Felipe, 
bursting  into  tears. 

"What's  the  matter  Felipe,  tell  me  in  English, 
I  don't  know  Spanish  well  enough." 

"Ah,  Senorita  !  My  littel  sister — she  die.  My 
baby  plaything.  What  now  can  I  do  at  the  night 
time  to  play,  when  I  work  no  more.  Ah,  my 
littel  Serita." 

"Poor  Felipe,  I'm  so  sorry !  But  you  did  not 
come  so  fast  to  tell  me  this.  You  want  something. 
What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Si,  Senorita  Margaret.  Yes,  yes,  I  want  some- 
thing. Come  queek.  My  brothers  and  sisters. 
They  go  see  baby,  then  die  too.  Come  tell  them 
go  off.  Bring  acuma ;  maybe  save  young  girls. 
Keep  them  from  die.  Come !  Will  you  come  ? 
Please  Senorita." 

"Yes,  Felipe,  of  course  I  will  come  right  away. 
Run  ahead.     Keep  the  children  out  of  the  house." 

"Ah,  gracias,  Senorita,  gracias !"  and  Philipe 
bounded  away.  He  found  his  brothers.  Mieuel 
and  Palos,  in  tears  at  the  doorway.  They  had 
just  returned  from  the  field.  He  caught  them 
vigorously  by  the  arm  as  they  were  about  to 
enter.  "Stay  out,  stay  out,"  he  cried,  "or  you 
will  get  the  plague.  Go  to  Uncle  John's  to  eat 
and  sleep,  he  has  no  children." 

"We  want  to  see  littel  Serita  and  kiss  her  good- 
bye," they  sobbed. 

"Not  so,  brothers.  One  funeral  is  enough.  We 
have  let  the  baby  die.  I  won't  let  you  die  too. 
Go  along.  Look  through  the  window  once,  then 
run." 

The  boys  slipped  to  the  tiny  window,  looked 
a  moment,  then  slowly  walked  with  bowed  heads 
down  the  street. 

Nurse  Margaret  came  soon  with  her  anti-toxin 
and  with  Felipe's  assistance  treated  the  three 
young  sisters  who  had  been  in  or  near  the  house 
all  day.  The  poor  mother  still  softly  crying, 
would  not  help  them,  but  no  longer  opposed  the 
plan  to  save,  if  possible,  the  rest  of  her  family. 
Days  of  illness  followed,  desperate  days  and  long, 
interminable  nights.  But  thanks  to  the  nurse's 
skill    and    the    faithful    care   of    Felipe,   who    left 

4 


the  farm  work  to  the  other  boys,  their  sister's 
were  saved.  Their  house  was  the  only  one  in 
the  village  where  but  a  single  child  had  died 
from  the  fatal  disease.  Two  or  three,  or  even 
more,  were  taken  from  many  homes  because  of 
the  ignorant,  careless  custom  of  allowing,  almost 
forcing,  relatives  to  caress  the  dead. 

Some  years  before  these  events  Felipe  had 
gone  from  this  little  mountain  village  in  New 
Mexico  to  the  Rio  Grande  Industrial  School  at 
Albuquerque,  maintained  by  The  American  Mis- 
sionary Association.  There  he  had  picked  up  a 
little  English  and  some  knowledge  of  American 
ways  of  living  and  working.  But,  unfortunately 
after  a  few  months  he  had  been  forced  to  return 
to  his  home  because  his  father  had  been  injured 
and  lost  his  eyesight  in  an  accident.  Felipe  must 
therefore  become  responsible  for  the  family  of 
nine,  dependent  now  upon  what  he,  with  the  help 
of  his  younger  brothers,  could  do.  This  was 
hard  but  not  impossible,  for  the  three  younger 
boys  had  been  taught  to  work  on  the  little  patch 
of  ground  and  Felipe  had  learned  from  the  school 
farm,  even  in  the  short  time  he  was  there,  many 
better  ways  of  working. 

But  the  lad  still  had  a  glimpse  of  the  paradise 
of  knowledge,  at  the  mission  where  now  for 
several  years  he  had  been  attending  night  school. 
There  he  had  acquired  a  reading  knowledge  of 
English  and  learned  to  talk  fairly  well  when  not 
excited.  He  also  attended  their  little  mission 
Sunday  school  where  his  strong,  sweet,  tenor 
voice  led  the  singing.  After  the  nurse's  skill  had 
saved  the  three  little  girls,  their  mother  permitted 
him  to  take  them  with  him  to  the  mission. 

One  January  Sunday  Miss  Margaret  was  look- 
ing over  her  mail  after  Sunday  school  and  Felipe 
was  helping  her  by  picking  up  papers  and  arrang- 
ing chairs  when  he  heard  a  sudden  exclamation 
from  his  teacher. 

"What  for  you   speak  so?"  he   asked. 

"Oh,  Felipe  here  is  the  best  program  for  Lin- 
coln Sunday  that  I  have  ever  seen,  but  it  is  too 
hard  for  our  little  folks.  It  is  beautiful  but  they 
could  never  learn  so  many  English  words  and 
such  long  ones.    What  a  pity." 


"Me  see,"  said  Felipe.  "Ah  !"  he  spoke  softly. 
"Lincoln,  Lincoln !" 

He  took  the  program  looking  steadily  at  the 
picture  on  the  cover,  then  lifted  it  to  his  lips, 
tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  said,  "Mexicans  need 
Lincoln."  He  turned  away  with  the  program  in 
his  hands  and  left  the  house. 

Felipe  did  not  come  to  read  that  night  as  was 
his  custom  on  Sunday  evening,  nor  did  he  appear 
through  the  following  week  for  his  regular  les- 
sons. The  teachers  wondered  at  his  absence  but 
felt  sure  that  all  must  be  well  because  he  was  seen 
upon  the  streets.  On  the  following  Sunday  he 
came  in  just  as  the  children  were  about  to  be  dis- 
missed. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Senorita,  please,"  he  cried. 
"See,   we   can  have   Lincoln   program   after   all." 

He  handed  the  teacher  two  sheets, — one  the 
printed  folder  he  had  taken  the  week  before,  the 
other  a  long  strip  of  wrapping  paper  covered  with 
fine  writing  which  Miss  Margaret  recognized  at 
once  as  a  translation  of  the  Lincoln  Day  Pro- 
gram. 

"I  be  Mr.  Lincoln?  Please  Senorita,"  and  the 
boy  looked  up  at  her  with  pleading  eyes. 

The  Senorita  stood  a  moment  thinking,  then 
said  softly :  "Felipe,  look  at  me."  Inflamed  eyes 
looked  at  her  from  shadows  that  showed  even  on 
his  dark  skin.  Hands  trembled  that  had  always 
been  steady. 

"Felipe,  you  sat  up  nights  to  do  this." 

"Yes,  Senorita." 

"Last  night  too,  Felipe?" 

"Yes,  Senorita,  all  night,  so  children  have  it 
today,  so  practice  and  get  program  on  his  birth- 
day." 

The  girl  steadied  her  voice,  then  said  huskily, 
"Felipe,  why  did  you  work  so  hard  for  us?" 

"Hard,  ah  yes,"  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
smarting  eyes  and  then  to  his  head.  "Pain  bad 
now.    Go  soon." 

"But  people  should  not  make  themselves  sick 
Felipe." 

"But  Senorita,  you  know  when  littel  sister  die. 
you  come  all  day,  all  night,  all  week,  many  nights, 
make  girls  well.     Gracias,   Senorita,  gracias." 
6 


When  Lincoln's  Day  came  the  village  crowded 
the  confines  of  the  little  school  room  to  suffoca- 
tion. The  blind  father  sat  on  the  front  seat.  The 
mother  slipped  in  and  sat  by  the  door,  her  two 
boys  standing  near.  The  program  began  with 
the  salute  to  the  flag,  then  followed  hymns, 
through  which  the  silvery  tones  of  Felipe's  voice 
could  be  heard,  the  prayer,  the  responses  by  the 
school  and  the  National  Hymn,  brought  them  to 
the  teacher's  reading. 

"One  hundred  fourteen  years  ago  Abraham 
Lincoln  was  born.7'  As  she  finished  Felipe 
stepped  to  the  platform  to  take  Lincoln's  part ; 
drawing  himself  to  his  full  height,  he  lifted  his 
face  and  began.  His  voice  vibrated  with  emotion 
but  kept  steadily  on  to  the  climax. 

"I  do  not  see  the  far  future.  For  me  night  fell 
on  noon  and  I  left  my  work  unfinished.  It  is  for 
you  to  complete.  Let  every  man  remember  that 
to  violate  the  law  is  to  tear  asunder  the  charter 
of  his  own  and  his  children's  liberty.  Let  rever- 
ence for  the  law  be  taught  in  school  and  college. 
'With  malice  toward  none  and  charity  for  all ; 
with  firmness  in  the  right  as  God  gives  us  to  see 
the  right,  let  us  finish  the  work  we  are  in.'  " 

Felipe  stood  a  moment  looking  upward.  It 
seemed  that  he  must  see  the  man  he  impersonated, 
a  look  of  devotion  wreathed  his  face  in  a  smile. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  seat  and  sat  quietly  by  his 
father,  who  whispered  in  his  ear,  "America  my 
boy,  no  more  Mexico." 


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